


my boat is so small

by kyrilu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of peace after the apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my boat is so small

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eggelo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eggelo).



> For [eggelo](http://eggelo.tumblr.com). 
> 
> This is vaguely set in eggelo and yllucs' Brownham zombie AU.

The leaves are crisp underfoot, and it smells like last night’s rain. Matthew lounges in the back of the truck, idly looking at the sky. There are birds overhead this evening, wheeling and cackling, and his eyes follow the pattern of their winding trail.

Will steps out through a curtain of trees, his usual scruffy self, holding today’s catch of fish. It’s his turn today - and Matthew’s gaze is now on Will, who is starting the fire.

"Will Graham," he murmurs out loud, his usual pondering gravitas, "fisher of fish, fisher of men."

_Men_  is a variable word these days, when it comes to Will’s murderers, and when it comes to the undead shells that roam the earth.

Will says as much. He looks up from the little flames that are now flickering below him. He gives Matthew a sardonic smile and says, “I don’t do much fishing for the latter any more, Matthew.”

Matthew waves a dismissive hand. “Whatever we’re doing with your Dr. Lecter. Still fishing.”

"He’s more than just any ordinary man," Will says, quietly, feeding a branch into the fire. It’s not a compliment or praise. Lecter is almost a symbol - to Matthew, he is a bloodthirsty Judas. To Will, he is the epitome of what it means to murder. The darkness and light of it. This is what Matthew knows Will is to him, and this fosters an almost understanding, but something in him is angry, tight, and he finds the pejorative  _monster_.

"Monster, then," Matthew says. "Searching for your monster in a world of monsters."

Will laughs at that, a dry laugh. “Maybe.”

The fire is growing. Will holds the fish over it, the sparks jumping around them, and Matthew doesn’t look at Will, just puts his arms underneath his head and waits for the clouds to dissipate. For the sun to set, for the stars to come out.

He tosses a wry fisherman’s prayer to the night breeze:  _Dear God, be good to me; the sea is so wide and my boat is so small._

Will hears him, and half-heartedly shakes his head at the hushed drama of it, but the prayer seems to hold the night still. Will has had his house, which was like a boat in the ocean of grass, and this is just another ocean. The woods and the trees and the fish, but there’s more sharks in the water.

When the fish is finished cooking, browned and hot, Will joins Matthew in the back of the truck. Matthew languidly stretches, pulling himself into a sitting position now, his back against the truck’s dusty windows.

Matthew accepts the proffered morsels, eating around the thin cartilage of bone, and he sees Will crane his head upward, looking for the stars. This night, right now, is not about monsters, or fish - except the warm fill of the meal at the bottom of his stomach.

He feels a faint smile on the corners of his mouth. He pushes the folds of the ragged blanket thrown across his lap over to Will, so they’re sharing it now.

His head falls to Will’s shoulders. He sleeps.


End file.
